I am floating on my back in a geothermal crater, gazing up at a Tiffany-blue Tuscan sky. I can hear nothing but the hum of happy crickets in pine trees, and should I lift my lazy neck, I would be rewarded with a view of a picturesque medieval village perched atop a distant hill. The water is a steady 99 degrees, more or less body temperature, and I’m as blissed-out as a baby in the womb.
Did I mention that the whole place smells like rotten eggs?
As soon as your car pulls up to the entrance of Terme di Saturnia – a five-star spa hotel in the sunflower-strewn region of Maremma, two hours north of Rome—you are greeted by a pervasive aroma of sulfur. Your nose, in an act of self-preservation, stops being able to detect it fairly quickly—but do not be deceived, the stench lives on. It is emanating from the famously salubrious local water, which starts as rainfall on the slopes of nearby Mount Amiata, trickles through fissures of rock, gets sluiced around with mineral-rich clay for 40 years, and ultimately re-emerges in the crater that forms an expansive hot springs pool at the center of the Terme di Saturnia resort.
There has been some kind of spa on this site for thousands of years. The springs were sacred to the Etruscans, who buried their dead nearby, and popular with steamy-soak-loving Romans. Centurions gurgled around in this odiferous H2O, as did clerics: In 1118, Pope Clement III dubbed Saturnia a “hospitale de balneo.” The water’s concentrated quantities of sulfur (it may be instructive to know that the word for fart is “scoreggia” in Italian), magnesium, calcium, and bicarbonate endow it with anti-inflammatory, anti-oxidant, and antibacterial properties, and its purported health benefits include reducing blood pressure, improving respiratory capacity, and detoxifying the liver.
Because of the density of its mineral content, you are advised not to swim in Terme di Saturnia’s pool. The goal is to maximize absorption by marinating. Buoyant noodles are available to assist this lack of aquatic effort; you grab a few and drift, peering up at the sky or down into the depths like a spacewalking astronaut. The water is crystal clear, aside from scattered globs of thermal plankton, which add… how shall I say? Interest. The stuff resembles bird poop, or something a goat might barf up: an unwholesome substance, evacuated unpleasantly. It is black with snot-like streaks of white, simultaneously gelatinous and gritty, and it fizzes when you crush it in your hands. You are meant to scoop it up and smear it all over your face. Alarming, yes, but once you get past your gag reflex and try it, you won’t be able to stop. It makes your skin look amazing (thanks to its inherent exfoliating and moisturizing powers), and something about the act of slathering on this center-of-the-earth glop feels primally satisfying, as though you are the first human to toss aside her loincloth and discover the sybaritic pleasure of self-care.
There are other things to do here. You can golf, if that’s your thing. You can dine at the resort’s signature restaurant, 1919, where everything on the menu is divine (you’re in Italy, remember, pasta and wine are health foods). You might borrow a complimentary e-bike and scoot over to the nearby Cascate del Mulino, a site famous for naturally formed travertine pools brimming with geothermal water (and so many content-capturing tourists it may as well be influencer soup).
At Terme di Saturnia, there are cold plunges, hydrotherapy circuits, saunas, and a state-of-the-art spa and medical facility that offers everything from physiokinesis to cryotherapy to something called a “Bioenergetic Douche.” I try the Ulivitas body treatment, during which I am massaged with olive oil, scrubbed with basil, then wrapped in parchment paper and embalmed for 15 minutes before being stickily extracted and led to a shower. When I emerge, I am smoother than a ball of pesto gnocchi.
Terme di Saturnia offers five targeted multi-day wellness programs (Classic, Slim, Detox, Mind, Anti-Age), all of which I am sure are wonderful, but the only protocol I find myself interested in is the one listed on a placard next to the pool: soak for 20 minutes, get out and rest for 35 minutes, soak, rest, ad infinitum. I do this for hours, then shuffle up to my well-appointed room to change for dinner (the only time anyone wears anything other than a bathrobe). Through the haze of my dozy serenity, I realize that although I have visited countless spas in my life, I have never truly relaxed at any of them until now.
After three days, my skin is softer than it has ever been. Even my chronically elephantine elbows feel dolphin-like. But more than anything else, I am utterly—lastingly—becalmed. Maybe it was the otherworldly tranquility of the setting. Maybe it was the quiet (note the discreet “Your silence is precious” signs by the pool, and miraculous absence of ambient “spa” music). Or maybe it really was something in the water.
The Roman legend about Saturnia’s origin tells us that the god Saturn, fed up with humanity’s incessant squabbling, shot a thunderbolt into the earth to summon up water so mellowing it would force everyone to chill out. (Where are you now, big guy?). I’d like to buy the world a soak. But I’d settle for just one more stinky dip myself.
The writer was a guest of Terme di Saturnia Natural Spa & Golf Resort, where rates start at $350 per night, including breakfast and spa access.
April Long is a New York–based writer and contributing beauty editor at Town & Country
